The Viscount
by friendorphantom
Summary: A poem based on The Raven. Some time after Christine's departure, Erik is still mourning for her. His grief begins to take its toll on his mental health.


A/N: I wrote this for English class; the assignment was to write our own versions of Poe's "The Raven," but I kind of missed the part where she said we only had to do five stanzas...you can imagine my reaction when I found out I had slaved away all weekend unnecessarily.My teacher was very impressed with my dedication, though. So enjoy...if you hate it, you'll probably figure that out before getting to the end, so you can simply stop reading and there will be no need for flames. Ok? Ok.

Disclaimer: obviously based on "The Raven." format, rhyme schemes, some wording--not mine.

The Viscount

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I labored, eyes quite bleary,

Over many a rich and mesmeric sheet of musical score—

While I composed, melodies winging, suddenly there came the singing,

Of the siren softly ringing, ringing at the cellar door—

"'Tis some intruder," I muttered, "Ringing at the cellar door--"

Only this and nothing more.

Oh, distinctly I perceive it was on a Christmas Eve;

And each withered dying leaf from the tree dropped to the floor.

Listlessly I awaited the day—vainly I had tried to pray

To my God for cease of pain—pain for the lost _amour—_

Of the precious Angel of Music whom I always will adore—

Absent here for evermore.

And the fluent, sad, powerful sounding of each music note

Appeased me—please me to put my sorrow into musical score;

So that now, to still the aching of my heart, I stood it'rating,

"'Tis some intruder entreating entrance at the cellar door—

Some daft intruder entreating entrance at the cellar door—

A fool it is and nothing more"

Presently the pain subsided; to answer then I decided,

"Monsieur," said I, "or Madame, truly your forgiveness I implore;

For my music had been winging, when the siren came in singing,

And so rudely you came ringing, ringing at the cellar door,

That I scarce was sure I'd answer you"—here I opened wide the door—

The lake was there and nothing more.

Deep into that blackness staring, long I stood there wondering, daring,

Doubting, bearing hopes no specter ever dared to hope before;

But the silence was persistent, any clamor rather distant,

And the only sound there present was the whispered words, _"mon amour?"_

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, _"amour."_

Simply this and nothing more.

Back into the cellar bounding, all my heart within me pounding,

Soon again I heard the singing somewhat louder than before.

"Perhaps," said I, "Perhaps that is something in the torture chamber;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this puzzlement explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this puzzlement explore—

'Tis illusion, nothing more."

Open here I flung the portal when, to my fury most mortal,

In there strolled the stately viscount from the bitter ends of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he, not a moment stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of snooty Frenchman, standing at the chamber door—

Standing by the scarlet sofa just beside the chamber door—

Came and sat and nothing more.

Then this arrogant man misleading my sad longing into seething,

By the vain conceited manner of the countenance he wore,

"Since thy manner is so brazen, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,

Swaggering and pompous viscount wandering from the Swedish shore--

Tell me how thy wife is faring on the Scandinavian shore!"

Quoth the viscount "Nevermore."

Much I marveled this half-witted man to hear discourse so vivid,

Though his answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no dying Phantom being

Ever yet was cursed with seeing fop beside the chamber door—

Fop or fiend upon the scarlet sofa beside the chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore."

But the viscount, sitting lonely on the scarlet couch spoke only

That one word, as if his taunts in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he declared—nothing more to muss his hair—

Till I scarcely more than glared and said "Other folk have gone before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as afflictions have before."

Then the fop said "Nevermore."

Startled at the silence broken by reply so plainly spoken,

"Perhaps," said I, "what he utters is his only stock and store

Caught from some amnesic disease that he tragically seized

Forgetting fast and forgetting faster till his words one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his hope that disdainful burden bore

Of 'Never—nevermore.'"

But the viscount still misleading my sad longing into seething,

Straight I wheeled the organ bench in front of fop and couch and door;

Then, upon the wood sinking, I betook myself to linking

Longing unto longing, finding what this arrogant fop of yore—

What this vain, half-witted, swaggering, and arrogant fop of yore

Meant in saying "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fop whose dull vacant eyes now stared into my black mask's core;

This and more I sat divining, on the organ bench reclining

Before the sofa's velvet lining that candlelight flickered o'er,

But whose scarlet velvet lining with candlelight flickering o'er,

She shall rest on nevermore.

Then, I thought, the candlelight dimmed, weakened by an unseen wind

Blown by demons, whose footsteps thudded on the hard stone floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "Satan hath lent me—by these spirits he hath sent me

Torment—torment and taunting for the memories of _amour;_

Cease, oh cease this cruel taunting and forget this lost _amour!_"

Quoth the viscount "Nevermore."

"Sadist!" said I, "thing of evil!—sadist still, if fop or devil!

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, in this catacomb enchanted—

In this home by anguish haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—_is _there rest for the weary?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the viscount "Nevermore."

"Sadist!" said I, "thing of evil!—sadist still, if fop or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God you may adore—

Tell this soul laden with strife if, in the distant afterlife,

It shall clasp the precious Angel whom I always will adore—

Clasp the precious Angel of Music whom I always will adore."

Quoth the viscount "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, fop or fiend!" I cried, upstarting—

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Scandinavian shore!

Leave no blonde hair as a token of that taunt thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my solitude unbroken!—leave the couch beside the door!

Take thy knife from out my heart, and take thy sneer outside the my door!"

Quoth the viscount "Nevermore."

And the viscount, never flitting, still is sitting, _still _is sitting

On the scarlet velvet sofa just beside the chamber door;

And his eyes have all the haunting of a sadist that is taunting,

And the candlelight o'er him vaunting throws his shadow on the floor;

And my heart from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be mended—nevermore!


End file.
